I’ve written, I’ve edited, I’ve done flyers and newsletters and blog pages and various other forms of distributing the printed word. How hard could it be to compile a book, a memory keepsake, from a family reunion? It would be a personal challenge, and a little stimulation would do me good. Might learn something along the way.
Big understatement. I learned a lot, only some of it useful. But in the interest of possibly saving someone else from trying to re-invent the printing press, let me share some pointers I gleaned in the process.
The Object was to be a tribute to our parents, both of whom have been dead for decades. It would prod us six siblings to reminisce about our childhoods and also to give our children and their children a glimpse of their lineage and the grandparents they never knew. Each of us six wrote essays about our memories. My job was to edit, format for continuity, and sprinkle with old photos from our respective family albums. Mixed with the essays were action and family group photos of the reunion that took place over the Fourth of July weekend in Utah.
The Obstacles began with my own technical limitations. With a print run of 25, I couldn’t afford professional help. But the POD (print on demand) company I’d selected through their website advertising made it appear that help was at my fingertips, should I have questions somewhere along their simple four-step process. What I found were links—lots of links—to long explanations that somehow brought me back full circle to the screen where I started. The “contact us” link was the killer. They had no help line, no phone number listed at all. Answers to an emailed question took three days. Lesson 1: If you don’t want to burn out climbing the learning curve, don’t start at the bottom. Ask for help from a friend or other resource such as Kinko’s or a neighbor teen before attempting a project.
The book needed to have high-quality pages for color photos. The POD publisher offered photo books, cook books, and not much leeway beyond their own templates. I could have altered my vision of what the finished product should be and used their format, or I could look for an alternative. Scrapbook software wasn’t the answer either. Finally, in frustration, I turned to our local office products store, Staples, that offered an array of publishing options. It wasn’t as cheap, but the ability to explain face-to-face what I wanted seemed worth it. I handed over my thumb drive, a total mock-up I’d done on our printer, and verbal instructions. Lesson 2: There might be more than one right answer.
By this time, it was the end of July and I was tired of the project. I just wanted to have it done before leaving Utah and returning to Hawaii. Ms. Staples had assured me that the formatting help—in India—would have a proof copy by Monday. After I approved it, they would turn it over to the printer—in California—who would have finished product in my hands by Friday. I could distribute most of them before our flight the following Tuesday morning. To shorten the story, they didn’t deliver on time as promised. And in my rush to meet this schedule, I didn’t proof as carefully as I should have. When the books arrived, I was hugely disappointed with the cover but accepted them “as is” rather than insist on better quality and then deal with a reprint long distance. Even the toddlers have five o’clock shadow. Lesson 3: My deadline was really artificial. I should have taken more time, had them shipped to Hawaii, and asked for the photo to be lightened to look just like the proof copy I had approved.
The Outcome is a book that my extended family likes and I hate. Every time I pick it up, I remember weeks with the rough draft spread across the carpet as I made certain the odd and even pages backed up correctly. I see the great photos that didn’t make the cut. And I see that cover, not as it is but as it should have been: a full bleed photo that wrapped beautifully. Lesson 4: As your own worst critic, learn to keep your mouth shut rather than point out the flaws. No one else knows or cares about what might have been, could have been. Practice saying, “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”
Lesson 5: Learn to like it.
Stay Well, Read Less
I’ve got to stop reading. It’s the source of all my hypochondria. And since I’m healthy head to toe and don’t feel anything more insidious than muscle aches and pains from exercise class or other physical activity, I project onto my unsuspecting kids who are far away and out of my grasp. A mother’s job as official worrywart is never finished.
I talked with my nephew, whose business of Gunnar Optics specializes in creating lenses that fight eye fatigue and damage due to too much time staring at computer screens. Of course that triggered the thought that all our young adults may get themselves in for medical checkups, but I doubt they’ve had eye exams lately. Memo to all: schedule appointments. You need your eyes.
The AARP magazine arrived in the mail. Inside, a short article on vitamin D, the sunshine vitamin, deficiency. To parents of the new baby: take him outside! Even though it is still over 100 degrees every day in your part of the country, he needs to see daylight. Make his first feeding of the morning an al fresco meal out on the patio. His immune system needs it.
Even advice columnists are in on the TMI siege. One woman wrote that she was concerned that her hubby, who had given up smoking, was now addicted just as firmly to nicotine gum. Dear Abby aka Jeanne Phillips stated that continued use of nicotine gum could lead to cardio problems, among other things. Memo to the ex-smoker in the family: Have you switched to Dentyne yet?
This weekend we had another bicycle fatality on Oahu. Driver of the truck that killed the cyclist actually crossed the highway to strike him head on, then fled the scene and was arrested hours later. Seven tenths of our family bike. There is no amount of caution, no safety net I can throw around the lot of us for protection. Unfortunately, cycling paranoia is well-founded, and it’s not cured simply by avoiding the newspaper. To all: Don’t leave home without your helmet, and…don’t…don’t think about it.
Lately I’ve been reading everything that crosses my path on health care issues. That often includes statistics on obesity. I can’t worry about the waistline of America; I can only concentrate on those I love the most. I am the heart rate monitor prodding those who used to be dependents. Keep cycling. Be a regular at the gym. Build muscle and bone density, stay flexible, meditate to alleviate stress. Oh, and eat your veggies.
Remember, the dentist is only a phone call away. I had mine cleaned this week, so the reminder postcard is now in the trash where I won’t be reading it with every glance at the desk calendar. Gum disease has been linked to heart disease, you know. Look it up on-line.
On second thought, don't read. It'll keep you up at night and that's not good for your health.
We bought into the dream, or rather the dream vacation. Conde Nast Traveler magazine is running a photo contest. Win your dream vacation, worth up to $25,000. After looking at past winners and making the inevitable comparisons, the conclusion we drew was that we could do as well. Better even. Possibly first place.
We scanned the rules for the usual pitfalls, and yes the contest was still open through July. No limit on the number of times you could enter, so we started scanning travel photos for “the best of the best.” My hubby is the real photographer, but we picked out one or two that I had taken and could enter under my own name, which would give us more chances. And while he culled favorites and dropped them in a new e-folder for the contest, I kept reading.
The part I liked best was that the entries were judged equally on the quality of the photo and the written explanation. It’s a travel magazine, after all, selling to people who love to visit foreign places. “The evocative appeal of the essay” was weighted 45% of the total score. What made this moment special? We’ve traveled a lot in the past few years, and my mind skimmed the photos for words that would complete the story. Each photo evoked a particular memory of a beautiful moment. I could take the reader along with us on safari, up the Inca Trail, through the Fiery Furnace of Arches National Park at daybreak. The lions of Africa—well, let me tell you…
Then we read the catch. All entries became property of the promoters to use any way they wish, including altering, for perpetuity. Not just the winners, for whom even runner up prizes such as camera bags or other big-whoop items would be considered compensation, but all entries. Once you upload your image, it’s theirs forever. Can you say “intellectual property rights?” Further Internet search on photography contests revealed that CN Traveler isn’t alone in its shameless grab for free photos. Blog postings warned about understanding what’s at stake. Writers and photographers are sometimes so anxious to see their work in print that they accept a contract or agreement that heavily favors the publisher. It demeans the artist and ultimately the profession.
As the old saw goes, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” Until you count those vital four: READ THE FINE PRINT. Then it’s worth nothing.
I've spent way too much time lately trying (and failing) to edit old 8mm movies that are part of the legacy left by our parents. Dad wasn't a great photographer, and given the technology of his era, he could make his audience seasick just watching home movies. They are nearly faded away in some instances. But my brother had them converted to VCR and now digital, which should preserve them until the newer, better, something else comes along.
The short clips tested my memory banks, and in a surprising number of instances, I would come up with the name of a person I knew half a century ago. Our parents' friends. Men and women who were important to them, not me. It's amazing what we have stored in our brains.
Most of the film clips are taken on vacation, which shouldn't be a surprise. That's when everyone hauls out the movie camera and records themselves in front of famous landmarks. But the real surprise was what an emotional response those old camping and beach scenes evoked. The happy times of childhood reel out in my mind without the aid of old movies. The old cement swimming pool fed by a thermal hot spring and cold mountain stream in Granite Creek, Wyoming is more vivid to me and my siblings than our classrooms, our neighborhood houses, our distant relatives.
Photography has come such a long way. Now a good mobile phone can capture an "aha" moment, and in short order they are available on the Net for anyone to view. Good, instantaneous, share-able. You can't beat it. As parents, hubby and I didn't take many movies of our kids. But I hope we gave them a lot of bright moments that they pull from their memory banks and relive when they need a healthy dose of nostalgia.
The shopping cart is always a dead giveaway. At first she just had the usual plastic bags and wore too many clothes. Then she acquired a beach mat, a blanket, more stuff, and eventually a shopping cart to wheel it from one spot to another. She'd taken up residence under a tree in the small park near us. Nice, ocean view and restroom nearby.
But more often lately she's been hanging at the bus stop with its uncomfortable cement bench, brick wall behind, and one of the city's busiest streets ten feet from her face. If she weren't crazy before, a week of living in those conditions would surely have tipped her over.
Honolulu doesn't have answers to the problem of homelessness any more than any other big city. We have shelters, soup kitchens, and still people erect tents in public places or, like our neighborhood denizen, take over a bench. Some simply don't have money. But some have mental problems and lots more issues.
This morning while heading into town, I noticed two police cars stopped, two cops having a chat with the woman. While heading home again later, a black SUV was pulled up to the bus stop, its flashers on and door open. I watched a man walk over and drop a styro container--bento box lunch--on her empty blanket next to the shopping cart. Happy Easter to him. And God bless.
There’s a definite price added to living in Paradise. While South Dakota is flooding and California struggles under state budget deficits larger than most nations, we console ourselves with thoughts that living in Hawaii is relatively benign. But we’re pricked with hundreds of tiny barbs that mount up until we realize that the cost of living is real pain. The expense of fuel to ship 90 per cent of goods is only part of it. Most consumer products travel from point of origin to point of purchase. We’re not so different. But since most of our goods come via ship, we pay the healthy wages of the Longshoreman Unions. And there’s the General Excise Tax (not sales tax) that pyramids with every exchange until the final number looks more like 12 per cent than 4.25.
Here’s a mini comparison on grocery basics. The Hawaii numbers are from Safeway, taking full advantage of their savings card. The Utah market is in Park City, resort town not noted for low prices.
ITEM HI UT
Raisin bran $6.49 $3.00
Cucumber 2.49/lb .99/lb
Zucchini 3.49/lb 1.50/lb
Tomatoes reg. 7.44 saver 2.98/lb 1.99/lb
Apples, cheapest reg. 4.22 saver 1.99 .79/lb
Even good old Costco, same items and presumed savings from their huge volume of shipping, tacks on the price of Paradise. Blackberries were two dollars more, but they held the price on coffee.
Food is the one thing no one can do without. We pay double for haircuts, four times as much for car insurance, and don’t even ask about real estate. When we think “Lucky we live Hawaii,” we focus on friendships and climate, the things no one has figured out how to attach a price tag.
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User name
Password
Create a new one, remember the old ones
I’ve secured myself out of my own cyber realm
Mobile phone
Computer
Heart rate monitor
Camera
The manuals to operate daily devices
Read like encyclopedias translated from Chinese
Remote controls for
Television
House alarm
Car keys
Machinery talks without ever touching
Much like humans in a crowded world
Dimmer switches
Timers
Ecological bulbs
Warm or cool glow
Even lighting is no longer just an
On or off proposition. Too many choices
Walk
Read a book
Slice vegetables
Talk face to face
Simple activities, simple equipment
Bring peace to a cluttered mind
So Congress has passed an economic stimulus package that will supposedly save the nation and, by extension, the global economy from ruin. We’ll be shackled with trillions of dollars in debt for generations to come. And this is supposed to solve our problems?
I don’t buy it. Except, I do…because I have no choice.
I see the whole bailout process as the death of the American Dream, the idea that through education and hard work a person can improve his lot in life. Saving, living within one’s means, abiding by the laws, was supposed to provide rewards in the land of the free where all men are created equal. While our history has been less than perfect, it’s an ideal we’ve strived for with more than two centuries of success. Until now.
Nowadays, taxpayer is synonymous with patsy. Financial incentives are going to those who pay the least amount of taxes. It’s not enough that government collects money to provide for the common defense and those myriad functions specific to maintaining a nation, with this plan it plays a bigger role in every household. Last year checks were mailed out to encourage people to spend. We never got one. Nor are we expecting one with the current round.
The mortgage industry is blamed for triggering the economic collapse. And to fix it, Congress is passing laws to reward those who made bad decisions and save them from their own ignorance. We homeowners who have paid our mortgage payments religiously each month every year merely feel stupid. Big Brother didn’t come to our rescue. Two of three grown children now own homes, abiding by the terms of their contracts. The third couple looked at homes and decided they couldn’t afford one, so they continue to rent. Were they foolish not to sign up for a “liar loan” and thus be eligible for a bailout?
My voice in the nation’s capitol isn’t even a whisper; nobody’s listening. Our elected officials hunkered down to craft a second version of TARP and immediately larded it with pork projects that have nothing to do with prodding a stalled economy. Governors and mayors went to Washington to plead their cases. While private businesses are cutting costs and laying off workers, government at every level is looking to grow. Some would call that socialism—traditionally not a stimulating economic model.
What do we teach our children now about fairness, rewards for good decisions, and incentives for saving and playing by the rules? Would we be smarter to teach them how to “game the system” by running up debt and then declaring bankruptcy? Do we let them know there is no such thing as failure because our government, made up of We the People, is ready and willing to save them from themselves? At what cost?
Attended our first Sundance Film Festival movie this morning. Too wierd standing in line at the Eccles Center before 9:00, but that's the drill. The movie was saw was "Shrink," with Kevin Spacey as a psychiatrist who needs more help than his patients. We thoroughly enjoyed it, especially once we got accustomed to tuning out the F word. (Why do so many people think of it as dialogue enhancement?) The movie itself was good, but the overall experience improved it greatly. After the screening, the director and cast came on stage for Q and A. Yes, K. Spacey attended and participated with humor and grace, as did the others in this fine cast.
It so reminded me of writing conferences. The creativity brought forth in this ten-day festival is amazing. Some movies are real stinkers; some are terrific; all carry the hopes and dreams and talents of hundreds of people as they bare their artistic souls to the public. How often have I seen writers, pitch memorized and rehearsed, pouring their dreams out to editors and agents?
Sundance is celebrating 25 years, and this year's theme is "Story." Simple, appropriate. It's wonderful there are venues such as Sundance, Romance Writers of America, Maui Writers Conference, and others to provide a platform for independent storytellers. We need their voices. I applaud their courage for pursuing their dreams.
